On A Bare Branch A Crow Is

My Body, Now Close To Fifty Years Of Age, Has Become An Old Tree That Bears Bitter Peaches, A Snail Which Has Lost Its Shell, A Bagworm Separated From Its Bag; It Drifts With The Winds And Clouds That Know No Destination. Morning And Night I Have Eaten Traveler's Fare, And Have Held Out For Alms A Pilgrim's Wallet.

First Snow-falling-on The Half-finished Bridge.

I Am One Who Eats Breakfast Gazing At Morning Glories.

With Every Gust Of Wind, The Butterfly Changes Its Place On The Willow.

The Basis Of Art Is Change In The Universe.